Mary's Choice
by Fiona Traviata
Summary: Even on the moors of Misselthwaite Manor, class seperation defines relationships. When Dickon and Mary begin to grow too close, she decides that she must stop the progression. Can he convince her that love knows no boundaries?
1. A Secret in the Garden

The smooth pebbles lining the path to her garden rolled and crunched under the dainty shoes that Medlock insisted she wear even when she gardened. A brisk wind brought roses to her cheeks and gently pulled tendrils of hair from the neat braid her darling Martha had so patiently redone. Aunt Lily's roses would be blooming, and the dogwood would need pruning, and the crocuses would need to be deadheaded and the soil turned; she only hoped that Dickon would be there to help her with the ever-growing list.

Slender white fingers grasped the latch of her garden door and pushed it open. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her, surveying the garden. Yes, there was all the work she had thought of, and more, but where was Dickon?

She spotted him, then, sleeping propped against the oak tree with his long legs stretched out before him. She smiled and removed her shoes and stockings, crossing the patch of lush grass to him. She knelt, spreading her skirts, fully intent on waking him, but something stayed the hand that strayed towards his shoulder, and she looked at his face, truly studying it for the first time.

It was a pleasant face, with round, rosy cheeks and an ever-smiling mouth. Even in his sleep, there was a faint curve to his lips that brought a smile to her face. Hidden beneath those damnably long lashes, she knew there were eyes the color and warmth of a summer sky. His dark hair had fallen across his smooth forehead, and she resisted an urge to push it back. She reconsidered. It was not a pleasant face; it was a beautiful face.

He stirred in his sleep; she pulled back quickly. Had he seen her watching him? The very thought brought a flush to her cheeks. No, he was sound asleep. She carefully eased back onto her knees and reached out to wake him. But he murmured something, still asleep, that she bent close to hear.

"Mary…" Heat flooded from her head to her toes. Was he dreaming about her? Why? Even for a moor boy, he was extraordinarily polite and well mannered, and would certainly not be thinking about her, the lady of the manor, in such a fashion. But for a moment, she wished he would.

And then she shook her head, banishing such thoughts. Even if she did feel so about him, it would be impossible. But still, they were of a courting age; he of seventeen years and she of fifteen. Courting! How could she even think of such a thing? He was just a moor peasant, and she was a highborn lady.

"Mary…" he murmured again, and she saw his eyes flutter open.

He looked up at her through blurry eyes, seeing her pale face framed by auburn curls; green eyes shining above blushing cheeks, and half dreaming, he reached up and touched her face. The shock of her tangibility awoke him, and he snatched his hand back and sat up quickly, avoiding her gaze.

"I'm sorry, Miss Mary, I dinna ken what I was thinkin'," he muttered.

"That's… that's alright, Dickon," she said, her voice shaking. "You were probably dreaming, and you didn't recognize me." She steadfastly refused to think that he might have been dreaming about her.

"Yes," he said, a bit wistfully. "I was dreamin'." He looked at her then with a tentative smile, to which she responded wholeheartedly. After all, he was her friend. And then everything was alright again.

They worked together quietly for the majority of the day, and then sometime after lunch she was standing on the stone bench pruning the rose bushes. He was kneeling about two feet away transplanting a tulip bulb when she moved just a bit and slipped. Faster than they both could remember, he launched from his knees and caught her with a muffled cry before she hit her head. They tumbled to the ground, arms and legs flailing and caught in copious women's clothing. She landed on her back, breathing heavily. He propped himself up on his elbow beside her and looked down at her.

"Are y'alright, Mary?" he asked her anxiously. She nodded.

"Just a little bruised and winded, Dickon. I'll just lay here a moment."

"Alright, Miss Mary," he said very quietly. And then he looked so indecisive, she wondered what he was thinking. Very gently, he reached over and caressed her cheek, brushing the dirt off and running his thumb tenderly over a small scratch from the thorns of the rosebush. She laid there, her stomach churning with nerves and desire. He traced her features with the touch of a butterfly's wing, her blush blooming in its path. And then, so slowly that she wasn't sure it was happening, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her.

It was a chaste kiss, a kiss so tender and gentle that her very core was shaken by the pure love it bespoke. She lay under him, reeling with emotions so varied and deep that she could not put a name to them. She slid her fingers into his hair, wrapping her slender arms around his neck, and clearly felt the shock that ran through his body as she responded to him.

"Mary," he whispered as he drew away, his innocent eyes wide with wonder. Now it was she that reached out to touch his face, unsure whether she was dreaming or awake.

"I…" she began to say, but he didn't let her finish the sentence and kissed her again. She closed her eyes as they broke apart.

"Mary," he said so softly that she wasn't sure if she'd heard it. "I love ye, Mary." And that brought her back to reality like a slap in the face. She sat up, turning away from him.

"But you can't, Dickon… you can't!" she said, not believing herself as she said it. Something tore within his breast, and he froze.

"What d'ye mean, Mary? D'ye not love me?" he whispered. He could not see the tear that slid down her cheek, and neither could he hear her answer.

"I don't know, Dickon," she breathed through her tears. And with that, she pushed herself to her feet and fled from the garden, leaving a grieving boy behind her.


	2. A Startling Decision

She sat in her bedroom, forcing herself to keep from shaking. Every second that she sat there, the memories of his touch beat in her blood with her heartbeat. And that kiss, that damnable kiss! ghosted across her lips and drew a hot flush back to her face.

But what could she do? She could not let him think that she felt the same way about him; for even if she did, nothing could ever come of it. Society's rulings, even here on the moors, dictated that she must marry according to her caste, which was that of the nobility.

She certainly could not return to the garden for the next few days. As much as the thought pained her, if she returned, she knew he would probably be there. Then, the idea came.

She rose from her bed, ringing her bell pull for Martha. As she waited, she splashed her face with cool water from the basin beside her bed and let her hair down.

There was a discreet knock on the door.

"Come in," she called out, hoping her voice sounded steady. Martha entered, her merry eyes dancing.

"Yes, Miss Mary. Tha called for me?" she said, and the sound of that brogue nearly brought her to tears again. She gained control of herself.

"Martha, I would like to see my uncle. Would you please ask him if he has a moment?"

"Oh, Miss Mary, tha know'st he always has time for thee."

"Yes, but I would appreciate if you would help me dress and then ask him if he has time. I need his full attention, and I don't want to interrupt him if his mind is occupied." Martha nodded, but her face grew curious.

"Why, Miss Mary, what has made thee so serious 'bout it?"

"Nothing, Martha. I have made some decisions and I need to speak with my uncle about carrying them out." Martha still wondered, but she knew better than to question any further.

"Shall we get tha freshened up, then, Miss?"

After she had changed clothes and Martha had redone her hair, they went through the endless hallways and corridors, down two flights of stairs and through the library to her uncle's study.

Martha knocked quietly.

"Come in," a quiet voice said. Martha entered, shutting the door behind her. A gentle murmur of voices sounded through the door, and then Martha came back out.

"He'll see thee, Miss." Martha left quietly. She entered into the dimly lit study and gazed affectionately at her quiet uncle.

"Come, sit down, Mary," he said as he gestured to a chair next to his rich mahogany desk.

"How is Colin, uncle?" she asked him. He smiled wanly.

"He is better; although he was disappointed the cold kept him from joining you and young Dickon in the garden today." Mary's stomach twisted.

"Yes… we missed him, uncle." Maybe, she thought, if he had been there, this wouldn't have happened.

"So, my dear, what did you need to speak with me about?" Mary shifted a little in her chair.

"Uncle, I've been thinking about my age and what sort of things I ought to be doing. I mean to continue working in the garden, but isn't a young lady of my age expected to be giving a coming out ball? I'll be sixteen in two months, and we ought to start planning something, shouldn't we?" She said it all in a sort of rushed way. He looked at her with his eyebrows raised.

"Well, Mary, yes, it is expected in the city, but it's rather something of an optional nature out here on the moors. But if it's something you would like to do, then…"

"Yes, uncle, I really would." He looked at her curiously, but then he laughed.

"Why not? Misselthwaite hasn't had a good party in years!" Mary smiled back at him, but inside she felt empty and guilty. Oh, Dickon, she thought, why did you do this to me?


	3. A Revelation

The two months were spent in a flurry of activity. When she wasn't with her uncle, discussing the traditions and history of the nobility, she was with Mrs. Medlock, learning the minute rules and details of the etiquette of the nobility. Colin would be going away to the university at Oxford at the end of the year, so in a way this was also a sending off party for her once-sickly cousin.

She and Colin spent more and more time together, which she enjoyed, but on bright days when they were studying in the library, she would stare forlornly out the window, and once he even caught a tear slipping out of her eye.

"Mary," he said quietly to her. "What's wrong, dear? You've not been to the garden in weeks." She looked at him quickly.

"Well, with this ball I've not had time, Colin," she said, a bit defensively.

"We're not doing anything important for the next few hours. Why don't we go out?" She hesitated, but thought that he wouldn't be there; it had been three weeks since that day.

"All right, dear, but it will probably be rather messy since we haven't been in a while, and I don't think _he_ will have been either."

"Dickon? Why ever not?"

"He… he said that he had to help his mother with some things at home…" Colin could see that she was being evasive, so he knew enough to let the subject drop. They put on light coats and went outside. As they drew nearer and nearer to the garden, she grew more and more nervous, even though she knew how irrational it was. He would not be there. He would have understood that she did not wish to see him by her prolonged absence.

Colin opened the door for her and she stepped inside.

The garden was immaculate. He had to have been there, for Ben Weatherstaff knew that the children alone wanted to tend for the garden. She looked around, her eyes searching, seeking.

He was not there.

Her heart sank, and her eyes filled. Somehow, she had hoped he would be there. She hoped he would be waiting for her, his honest face lighting up when she entered. She had hoped that he would enfold her in his strong arms and kiss her again. And she knew it was wrong and terrible and that everyone who was anyone would condemn it. But deep down she knew, although she would never say it aloud, that she loved him.


	4. A Bit of Lace and News

She stood on a stool in the center of one of the many parlours in Misselthwaite, with Medlock overseeing the fitting of her dress by two rather nervous maids. They were new to the manor, taken on for the many guests that would come for the ball and stay several weeks. Martha was sitting in the corner, sewing lace for the hem and bodice with a look of dreamy contentment on her face and humming with the phonograph Master Craven had bought.

In fact, Master Craven had bought very many things in preparation for this ball. Although it was true that after Colin's recovery he had revived the house to a degree, a great many rooms had remained closed. Now, however, fifteen new maids, ten valets, two new scullery girls and ten new grooms had been hired, and with their aid Martha and Mrs. Medlock had gone through the entire manor. Every room had been aired and cleaned within an inch of its life; every mouse was chased out, every curtain and bedspread mended or replaced, every floor and window polished until Medlock could see her face in them.

Mary had moved to a new set of rooms worthy of the lady of the manor, for her uncle had no wife and no daughter, so she now occupied that position. Colin had also been moved to the upper floor, and the two took much pleasure in the other's close presence. Mary had become more and more dependant on her pale cousin for companionship and love, although she inwardly pined for Dicken's honest and easy conversation, his ability to see straight through all her whims and foolishness and bring out who she truly was.

She missed being with him in the garden, under gray skies, under blue skies, in pouring rain, in blustery winds. She missed the scent of life and living, of new birth and ancient loam. She missed the feel of his earth-softened hands guiding her in planting a daffodil or in pruning a thorny rosebush without pricking herself. And though she went through the motions of learning how to dance with Colin, of choosing the dinnerware and food for the banquet, of listening to different music for dancing with her uncle, of standing and being fitted for her gown, beneath her occupied and gay façade, she thought only of Dickon and her garden.

She shifted a little and promptly felt a pin drive into her side. The maid, a slim little blond thing named Betsy, gasped and turned bright red. Mrs. Medlock, infuriated at what seemed to be lack of concentration on the maid's part, slapped her soundly across the face. The girl burst into tears and tried to apologize through her sobs; the other maid, tall and dark, called Anna, turned pale and looked pleadingly at Mary.

Her eyes flashed and her temper rose. Keeping control of herself, she said in a deliberately quiet voice,

"Mrs. Medlock, how dare you slap this child? The fault was mine; I was daydreaming and I moved. If you touch her again, I'll have your job." Mrs. Medlock flushed; but she could say nothing against Mary now. Mary turned to the weeping Betsy and bent down.

"Come now, dear, stop your crying." She turned to Martha, who was looking at her with undisguised pride. "Martha, darling, do you have your handkerchief?" Martha handed it to her silently, but her eyes spoke volumes. Mary removed Betsy's hands from her face and gave her the handkerchief.

"There, darling. Don't fret. I'm not hurt, see? Go splash some cold water on your face and you'll feel much better." The poor little thing looked up at her gratefully through red eyes and Martha took her arm to guide her to the kitchen.

Anna looked at Mary with profound respect and continued working on the dress.

An hour later, after Medlock had left the room, Anna had finished the fitting and folded the material in her arms. Mary had changed back into her normal clothes and was about to leave the room.

"Mistress… Mistress Lennox," Anna said tentatively. "I jes' wanted t'thank thee fer bein' so good t'little Betsy. She's a shy little thing, an', well, I ken t'ain't me place t' say so, but Mistress Medlock frightens 'er. Tha'rt a right kind 'un, tha'rt." Mary smiled at her.

"Oh, Anna," she laughed. "Mrs. Medlock frightened me too when I first came here. I know that because she's the housekeeper, you must defer to her, but don't let her scare you. She is very possessive of her power, so she tries to force it upon everyone. If she hurts you or Betsy again, I want you to come and tell me or Martha. I'll speak with my uncle about it; he doesn't tolerate unkindness." Anna curtsied somewhat awkwardly with all the material in her hands.

"Thank'ee, Mistress," she said warmly, and then she left.

Later, as Mary and Colin sat together studying, Colin looked at Mary speculatively.

"Mary," he said quietly. "I've been wanting to ask you something for a while now." She looked at him quickly, afraid he had discovered her secret.

"What is it, Colin?"

"Are you in love with someone?" Her heart jumped into her throat and she fiddled with the lace cuff of her blouse.

"I… no, dear, I'm not," she lied. He smiled brightly then.

"Oh, excellent!" he laughed. She looked at him, startled.

"What on earth…"

"Well, you know how Father and I went to Oxford two months ago for the interview and to become acquainted with the area?" She nodded. "I met this girl there; Isabelle." His eyes lit up when he said her name. "She's an absolute angel, Mary; beautiful, intelligent, cultured, and her father is rather wealthy. We've been corresponding for a few months, and I'm absolutely in love with her."

"Oh, darling, that's wonderful!" she exclaimed, although she felt a little tug of jealousy. Colin had always been just hers and Dickon's, but now he was someone else's too.

"Well, the reason I'm telling you is that she has a brother who will be going to school with me; his name is Joseph. He's a strapping lad, the epitome of a true Englishman. I had showed him your portrait while we were there, and he's just smitten with you. Father's invited their family to your ball, so they'll be here several weeks. Joseph and I thought it would be just smashing if, well, we were all sort of paired off. What do you think?"

Mary was temporarily speechless. Her head was whirling, and she could barely think.

"I… I… would like to meet him, I suppose," she managed weakly.

"Darling, there'll be all sorts of suitors at the ball, but if you have, well, a sort of escort…"

"Colin, I'll meet him, but I don't know about an escort…"

"Of course, dear. I'll go write to him now." And with that he hopped up and kissed her forehead, then ran off.

Mary sat, slightly stunned. But what had you expected? she asked herself. That you would never marry or be courted just because you love a moor boy you cannot have? No, she resolved, I will set him aside and continue to love him, but I must make room in my heart to love someone I can marry. And maybe Joseph is that someone.

She crossed the room to a window and looked out upon the moors. Far off in that sea of heather she saw a small white spot with a black speck over it. Dickon and Jump, she thought. Silently she touched her lips, feeling again his kiss, a kiss she believed she would never again receive.

_Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for your comments and reviews. I have taken all of them into consideration. I just wanted to let you know that this may go on for a while, so keep checking back. Some chapters may seem like it's the ending, but unless it specifically says so, I ain't done. :D Thanks again and enjoy._


	5. A Hasty Correspondance

**Hello all! I apologize for the delay; school's been insane with Quarterlies and term papers, all of that stupid stuff. This is just a bit of a teaser before the next two chapters, which I promise will be longer. Thanks for reading and reviewing, which I know you'll all do… (Cough, cough). Thank you to the reviewers for your wonderful support; it's what keeps me writing. **

_To Master Joseph Williamson_

_From Misselthwaite Manor-_

_Master Colin Craven_

_Dear Joseph,_

_Excellent news! My cousin's heart is not yet taken, and she is amenable to meeting you. We await the day of your coming, and I hope fervently that our families may be bound by more than one marriage. Give my love to your beauteous sister, and tell her I beg off writing by excuse of Mary's ball, which consumes all of our time. I regret penning such a short letter, but my father and that irritating, but necessary, companion, Duty, compels me to attend to readying our rather large estates for next week's happenings. I pray you, commend me to your father yet again; I am anxious to impress him before I sue for Isabelle's hand. _

_In sincerest brotherhood, _

_Colin Craven_

_To Master Colin Craven_

_From Essex-_

_Master Joseph Williamson_

_Dear Colin,_

_I confess, I awaited your letter with no little trepidation; your cousin's beauty most likely sways more hearts than mine own, but I digress. Father sends his regards, a favorable omen indeed, and Isabelle her undying love. She mocks me for becoming besotted with a portrait, but had she seen such portrait, she might have understood. Upon saying this to her, she remarked that she need not see any portrait; if Mary Lennox looks anything like you do, she can comprehend my infatuation. I hope that raises your self-esteem enough to last until my sister arrives and can praise your numerous superior attributes in person. Do not worry, near-brother, I jest with you. However, I am in earnest when I say that I count the days until we depart for Misselthwaite and I may see you again, and finally behold that angel whose face has graced my dreams these many weeks. Give my regards to your father; I have much the same intentions in respect to Mary. I also must write in haste, for Father now calls and tells me that we shall leave sooner than expected. I shall see you before the week is out, brother. Convey my compliments and affection to your cousin; I chide the days for lack of haste. _

_With fond regards,_

_Joseph Williamson_


	6. A Gift and Tears

She woke that morning with nerves strung tighter than Medlock's embroidery. She was sixteen, therefore the ball, her debutante ball, was that night. Guests would be arriving throughout the day, preparing for prolonged holidays at the newly festive manor. And Joseph, Joseph and Isabelle would be there, the young gentleman Colin wished her to fall in love with. Mary lay on her bed, looking up at the lacy canopy over the four-poster, seeing Dickon's face among the intricate patterns and flowers.

Dickon… she had bumped into him one evening in the manor, when he had come to fetch Martha home to help their mother tend to a sick child. Their eyes met for an instant, sending waves of desire, regret, love, and unnamable emotions crashing through her. Mumbling an apology, he brushed past, leaving Mary with the shock of his momentary touch and tears in her eyes. Uncle Archie and Colin had seen her red-rimmed eyes that night at dinner, but tactfully refrained from further questioning after one futile attempt.

She thought of him constantly, replaying that windy day two months past in her mind's eye, wishing she could go back and throw her arms around his neck and cover his beautiful face with kisses, wishing she was born a peasant girl, able to marry him, bear his children, do his wash, cook his suppers, to simply _love _him, love him without rebuke, without restraint or limitations. And then Medlock would inevitably appear and Mary would be jerked out of her daydreams and planted firmly in reality, shuddering at what Medlock would do if she found out the truth of her seeming idleness.

All through the day, as she ate, walked, laughed, dressed, played, or sang, she felt numb, unable to register any emotion, responding to others mechanically and automatically. When the first guests arrived, she descended the stairs, garbed in a simple gray dress with lace at the high collar, cuffs, and wide hem, hooped and corseted, her hair drawn up at the nape of her neck. But she found upon returning to her rooms that she could not remember their names or their faces, only the coolness of the lady's cheek she had brushed her lips against and the feel of the bristly moustache of the gentleman kissing her hand.

Her uncle called her down to the study before lunch.

"Mary, my darling," he said fondly, kissing both of her cheeks and her forehead. She smiled warmly at him. "This is your sixteenth birthday, and I have something for you." He pointed her to a chaise lounge as Colin came in.

"Happy birthday, dear," Colin said, kissing her forehead. She kissed his cheek and took his hand in her own.

"Thank you, Colin," she said affectionately as he sat beside her. Uncle Archie pulled out a small box from his desk and presented it to Mary, covering her hands in his own.

"This was your Aunt Lily's, my dear, and she and I had planned to give it to our daughter, if we ever had one, on her sixteenth birthday. And so I give it to you, you who have become my daughter and the lady of our hearts." Mary, taken aback by his words, kissed his worn cheek, wet with tears. He patted her hand and sat in a chair to watch her open it. Colin smiled at her encouragingly and she pried the flower-carven lid open, creaking on small brass hinges.

A smell of cloves and lavender arose, and Mary gently brushed aside small dried flowers to reveal a locket, engraved with a rose and twining vines on the front and on the back, small words that she had to raise the locket nearer to her eyes to read.

_For the young woman who has so changed our lives with her love, beauty and grace_

Mary looked up at her uncle, tears in her own eyes.

"She would have loved you as much as we do, my dear. You look more and more like her every day," he said quietly, memories of joy and sadness infusing his voice. She rose and hugged him long and hard, breathing in the scent of books and leather.

"I love you, Uncle Archie," she whispered through her tears. "Thank you."

"I know, my dear," he murmured. "We love you too." Colin rose and embraced her, enfolding her in his thin arms.

"Do you remember, Mary, when we first met?" he said, holding her at arm's length and wiping away her tears with his handkerchief. She laughed a little, sniffling.

"Yes; you were a whiny brat that thought I was a ghost," she said affectionately. He smiled at her.

"Well, now I'm a whiny brat that thinks you're an angel," he said fondly, hugging her again. "You're the best thing that has happened to this house since my mother," he murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "So don't go anywhere for a while, alright?" She nodded mutely, fresh tears rising.

"Well," Uncle Archie said, dashing away his own tears. "Enough weeping for a birthday, I should say. Go get cleaned up for lunch, dears." The two nodded and, kissing the dear old man, left.

At precisely four-o'clock, Colin came knocking.

"Mary!" he cried through the door. "Mary, they're here!" Mary, who had been seated brushing her hair, set the brush down abruptly and forcefully on the unoffending dressing table.

"I'll be down in a moment, Colin," she called, quickly twisting her hair into a chignon and frantically sticking pins into it.

"Alright, darling," he said, and Mary could hear the anticipation and excitement in his voice as he ran down the corridors. She gazed in the mirror, tucking a stray curl in with a pin and a handkerchief into her sleeve, disguised by the lacy cuff. Alright, she thought, you must act the lady of the manor. You must be gracious and charming with Joseph, but demure, and a little flirtatious…

She sighed, remembering how she never pretended with Dickon. She never had to put on airs or think about how she must act. He had loved her for who she was, not who he wanted her to be. She gazed at her hands, grown unnaturally soft from the months of ease, of no gardening, and regretted it, but she bit her lip and rose, smoothing the gray skirts and raising her head high. If she must be a lady, she would be a lady such as they had never seen and never would again.

She walked down the hallway at a moderate pace, heeled shoes muffled in the rich rugs that lined the corridor floors, her hands resting on her skirts. Down two flights of stairs to the second floor corridor, to the grand staircase, she went. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, from nerves and guilt and regret and fear and a million other emotions she could not put a name to. Putting one hand on her stomach and the other on the banister, she appeared at the top of the grand stair and looked down.


	7. First Impressions

Five people stood talking in the grand hall of Misselthwaite Manor, and Mary stood still at the top of the stairs, observing.

A tall, dark man was talking with her uncle. Her uncle was stooped, but he was smiling and chuckling a little. The tall man was dressed richly, carried himself nobly, and Mary could hear his deep, steady voice from across the room.

Colin was kissing the hand of a beautiful young lady, who was blushing modestly. Mary supposed this was Isabelle. She instantly understood Colin's infatuation with her; her golden hair fell in thick ringlets over her shoulders, pulled back from her face by a pearl barrette. Her eyes, wide and innocent, were reminiscent of a robin's egg; her delicately boned cheeks were dusted with a maidenly blush, and she was small and slender.

Next to her stood a young man, taller than Colin, whom Mary guessed to be Joseph. He was tall, but slender like his sister, with dark hair like his father and a pale complexion and fine boned. He was, Mary had to admit, extraordinarily handsome. He seemed distracted, almost nervous, and was listening half-heartedly to Colin and Isabella's conversation.

Mary took a step down the stairs and the small heel of her shoe clicked once, a staccato sound on the ancient stone. All conversation stopped and the occupants of the foyer looked up.

"Ah, Richard," her uncle said to the man beside him, "this is my niece, Mary Lennox. Mary, dear," and he held out his hand as she descended the stairs. She placed her hand, shaking, in his withered, dry one. He squeezed it once. She curtsied to Mr. Williamson, who greeted her politely and Joseph, who kissed her hand tentatively.

Isabella came over, slowly. Mary looked at her, tense and nervous, and Isabella gave her a small smile. Mary let out a small breath of laughter and smiled back.

"So you're the girl who's stolen Colin's heart," she said teasingly. Isabella blushed and looked quickly at Colin, who flushed bright red. Mary laughed and held out her arms to Isabella, who gave her a hug and they exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mary," Isabella said, smiling. "Colin speaks of you constantly. It drives my brother mad." Mary stole a quick glance at Joseph, who looked more nervous than she felt.

"Come on, dear," she said, looping her arm through Isabella's. "I'll show you your room. I'm sure we have much to discuss." She looked at her uncle. "With your permission, Uncle?" He nodded, and Mary smiled to see Colin start to protest, but Joseph silenced him. Mary and Isabella swept out of the hall in a flurry of skirts, laughing.

Colin groaned and looked at Joseph. "I really don't think I want to know what Mary's going to tell her." Joseph looked stricken.

"You don't think Isabella will tell Mary anything embarrassing, do you?" he asked, worried. Colin clapped him on the back.

"We can only hope for the best, my friend. Father, Mr. Williamson, would you mind if Joseph and I went to look at the stables?"

"Not at all, Colin. Just remember that you must be ready for the ball by six."

"Yes, father. Come on, Joseph. We have the most wonderful gardener, Dickon, from the moor who speaks with the animals. He works wonders with horses," Colin led Joseph out of the hall towards the stables.


End file.
